


Silence

by stardustland (prowlish)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Episode Related, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Introspection, Other, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 19:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12688800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/pseuds/stardustland
Summary: Cyclonus couldn't figure out what had gone so wrong.





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chronosmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronosmith/gifts).



> A commission for a kind and lovely friend. <3 Thank you so much!
> 
> Takes place during the end of Lost Light #7. They/them pronouns are used for Cyclonus and Whirl.

By any estimation, there were hundreds of millions of sensors in a Cybertronian frame. Or was it a hundred billion? The math wasn't the curious thing; the curious thing was how this was documented fact and yet Cyclonus couldn't feel a single thing in their frame. 

The fact that they’d made it to the transport in time was nothing short of incredible. Cyclonus wandered as if in a daze, words echoing in their mind. The ring of metal upon metal, the glare of sunlight upon glass, the thunderous ocean of silence which swallowed everything else up.

They swallowed, feeling oddly weak in their knees, but Cyclonus managed to get themself to an unoccupied back corner all the same.

The hard seat beneath them could have been a cloud, or a bed of nails for all they noticed. The hum of the engine and the noise of bots boarding and Ultra Magnus fussing in the background — all distant. They could have been light years away. 

Cyclonus's thoughts had a single focus. One subject. One person, really — the one who usually occupied their thoughts.

Tailgate.

What could have gone so wrong? They were at a complete loss. Cyclonus knew they were far from perfect — very, very far. But they'd felt as though there'd been something stable and understood between them and Tailgate. Particularly after the Getaway incident. 

That brought a chill of sensation to their circuits. These days I’m careful not to fall under anyone’s influence.

Cyclonus clenched their fists, claws biting into their palms. Another distant sensation that they barely took notice of with their frame and their brain module so numb and overwhelmed. 

Had they become overbearing? Too assuming?

What can you offer him apart from your guaranteed disapproval and a face like a funeral?

It was Whirl's voice their mind conjured this time, from the fateful night itself. Their spark clenched in a mirror of the way their hands clasped together. The truth, the hurtful truth that only Whirl would tell them. And even though Cyclonus had been right about Getaway in the end, that he hadn't had Tailgate's best interests at spark, did that make Whirl completely wrong? Was Tailgate truly better off without them? 

They sighed. Primus, what a fool they'd been! 

Hardly conscious of the screech of claws on metal, Cyclonus dragged a hand down one cheek. And they barely felt it — a sharp contrast to the first time they'd made this gesture, full of bitterness and anger, using the pain for distraction and focus. Then, they had been prepared for a bloody fight.

But it wasn't then. It was now, and they were on a shuttle, and Tailgate was on the planet, and they wouldn’t know what to fight against. This was wrong, so wrong. But beneath the wrongness was the sharp knife of rejection, and if they felt anything acutely in this moment, it was that. 

The truth was, they couldn’t fight against that; all they could do was sit here and feel it and ponder the pain.

Hadn't they been the one to tell Tailgate never to hope? That it was all foolishness and lies? And yet here they'd been, letting their spark float along, happy and content with their place at Tailgate's side. And it had been so contenting, so fulfilling, after he recovered from the guards shooting him to bits. There was no more of Getaway's subtle game, and Cyclonus had thought... life could simply just be like this.

Stupid.

And it was stupid to dwell on the past, but something kept nagging at Cyclonus's memory, bringing them back to that night. The obvious answer was that the immediate past was too painful to dwell upon any longer. And yet...

Cyclonus shuttered their optics, as if they needed the help blocking the rest of the small ship out in this state. What was it? None of the "action" was really notable, not even nearly being shot to death. It wasn't the first time, probably wouldn't be the last time, and considering the mechanics of the Dead Universe, they'd been "technically sort of dead" for a time anyway. Nothing new.

Tailgate hadn't really confided the extent of exactly what Getaway had said to him that night. They hadn't really wanted to consider it, and in the end it hadn't really mattered. They'd foiled his plans and prevented Tailgate from being the sacrificial lamb for his scheme. That was all that Cyclonus had cared about.

But Tailgate had said something odd to them that night. Something utterly out of place, given that they'd been on a mad dash for their lives, to abandon the ship if need be — whatever was necessary. Because even if they hadn't put it into words until Whirl asked, Cyclonus had felt it for a long time — that they would tear down the sky before allowing Tailgate to come to the slightest harm. 

And they'd proven that.

But what had Tailgate said?

No. He'd asked something. What had he asked?

Have you ever heard of the four acts?

Cyclonus lifted their helm, optics open and online again, hearing Tailgate's voice clear as crystal in the moment. That had been it. The four acts — conjunx ritus. It had been very odd; Cyclonus hadn't thought too much of it, or attributed it to whatever nonsense Getaway had been pouring into Tailgate's audio. 

At the time — and sensibly so — Cyclonus had brushed away the absurd question. Alarms were blaring, they'd just attacked the captain (or one of them, at least), and survival was the top of the list. Tailgate’s, if not their own.

But now there it was: the four acts. What was the significance now? Bizarre questions or not, Tailgate had split with them on no uncertain terms. 

But it was something else to focus on, and anything to focus on was preferable to the reality — the image of his offering of innermost energon, lying discarded on the cold ground of a hollow planet.

Conjunx ritus. The first act, an act of intimacy. 

Unbidden, an older memory surfaced. Tailgate, on his presumed deathbed; Cyclonus holding his hand, speaking to him in Old Cybertronian. 

Some force seemed to constrict their spark as the significance of this mess of thought and memory seemed to finally coalesce. A tremble came over their plating. They clenched their hands again, letting the memory of that day continue to roll through their senses as internally, they recalled the acts.

The second act: the act of disclosure. And like it was a recording they were merely observing, there was Tailgate's voice in their audio once more, the smallest they had ever heard the bot speak. 

I’ve never been this scared... never, never ever... please don't... please don't go...

It was in perfect unison now. The third act — the act of profference. The gift Tailgate had given, one they still wore and intended always to wear. Unconsciously, they lifted one hand to trace along the base of one of their horns, the one Tailgate had hand-made a replacement for. Cyclonus could still feel where it attached, the careful seam joining together two things not totally alike.

Not the most perfect metaphor, and yet.

Cyclonus continued to let the memory files present themselves. Act four. The act of devotion. 

Strange to think of plunging a sword into a mechanism's spark as life-saving, and yet it had been. Whirl being good on their word was strangely a more regular occurrence of late. 

Devotion. Their spark to Tailgate's, burning away cybercrosis, giving new life and meaning to them both. (Devotion — split the sky before harm comes to him.)

How had they never seen it before? Were they blind as well as obstinate and a hopeful fool? A near panic gripped their spark — if this was their truth, if this was why things had been so good and then so bad, then they had to —

The ship shuddered, and for the first time their surroundings were immediate to them. They'd stood, intending to leap off the ship or do something, but it was too late; it was already taking off.

Heaviness settled on Cyclonus's spark, weighing them back down into their seat, features distraught.

You're right. It can wait.

Had this been it? Had Tailgate been waiting this long for Cyclonus to catch up, to realize? Had he gotten sick of it and decided he was better off alone?

Had they been even more of a fool than they'd ever dreamed?

It shouldn't have waited! For Tailgate's sake, it shouldn't have waited. Now what were they to do?

They weren't getting off the ship now. Not immediately after Tailgate had made it so clear he didn’t want Cyclonus there. And this expedition intended to... what. Go back to Cybertron? Intercept the Lost Light? Either way, how long would it take to then turn around and come back here? That was assuming, of course, that they could return as soon as possible. Cyclonus had promised their help in retaking the ship, and they were all to return to the Necroworld anyway, correct? Cyclonus was loathe to break their word, but. Would it be too late?

By any standard, it was too late already.

That heaviness was beginning to take the shape of despair. How was it possible to have had everything they ever dared dream they could with Tailgate and have it turn out like this?

Foolish. Wrong. Unfair. 

Once again barely realizing, Cyclonus began gouging matching marks beneath their other optic — they weren't really aware of it until they were stopped. Surprised, and yet still moving like the air was thick sludge, Cyclonus stared at the claw that grasped their arm.

"Don't."

They knew that claw. They knew the voice too, though it was deceptively soft. Blinking, Cyclonus gazed up.

Whirl.

They didn't say it again, but it didn't matter. Whirl sitting next to them in some strange state of composure was enough of an indication. And though it was extraordinarily hard to read an empurata victim who was also not very field-expressive, Cyclonus sensed a great deal of concern.

Which was also strange, but it was no matter. They let their arm settle into their lap, hands clasped together again. 

Another bit of conversation floated to the top of their mind. Why not? At this rate, the architecture of their failure could hardly be complete. Another facet wouldn't matter.

Important things are felt, not said.

Discuss this? Since when have we discussed anything?

Cyclonus clenched their hands into fists again. "I'm a fool," they murmured. They weren't really thinking of Whirl sitting next to them, but the other bot tilted their helm anyway. 

And then — rather dramatically — Whirl sighed. "Oh, c'mon," they groaned. "Sitting next to you for the whole trip will be awful if you insult yourself before I can! At least give me the chance to have a go."

Something about it was so... absurd that Cyclonus snorted — a sort of death rattle that may have been laughter in another context. "Who said you couldn't insult me?"

Whirl flushed another blast of air from their vents. "It's no fun if I don't get a crack at you first." Again, for an individual with so much expressive capability robbed from them, Whirl was doing a fine job at pouting.

"You've called me much worse than a fool," Cyclonus said, relaxing their posture to lean against the wall behind them. "I wouldn't think it would even register for you."

Whirl hummed. "Hmm, no, this definitely isn't fun. Thanks." They crossed one leg over the other, bouncing a pede — which, given the configuration of Whirl's legs, was always an interesting thing to watch.

It was too easy to fall silent again, but unlike before, Cyclonus didn't get lost in their own mind. Conversation, at least, had brought them mostly back to the present. Another gratitude they were poorly equipped to express. 

But it didn't really matter. Whirl didn’t care. And they were still miserable, still at a loss, but not totally alone.

Not yet.

And they would return.


End file.
